Recounts from SHIELD
by error331685974
Summary: In an AU, the Avengers became teachers, unwillingly plucked from their personal lives by the SHIELD Institute: prestigious, government-operated, and relatively confidential. However, this life may have turned out to be better than expected. The stories are told through each staff's point of view through various ways. Ch1-Tony Stark, Ch4-Clint Barton
1. Reflections of Iron I

**A/N: **Reflections of Iron _is the fictional autobiography of Tony Stark, a fictional Marvel(c) character and therefore I disclaim__. The idea is based off of a post I saw on Tumblr regarding the Avengers as teachers but I don't know who posted it. If it's you, tell me! _

* * *

Looking back on my life, I don't feel that I have accomplished anything admittedly remarkable for myself until I began working for SHIELD. We all have times when we feel that a part of us is missing and it's our life goal to retrieve it. We can never be certain of finding all the parts, but I believe that I am pretty damn close.

At the age of five, I built my first bike. At the age of nine, I built my first engine. I have won countless science fairs and received numerous awards, but none of that meant anything. It all meant nothing in comparison with what I have in that school.

I am, as you may or may not be resourceful enough to know, Anthony Stark—a physics teacher at the SHIELD varsity and a stupendously respected scientist with all modesty aside. Teaching at SHIELD is undoubtedly the best decision I have ever made. To get us all on the same page, SHIELD is an international institution for ridiculously overachieving children and children born into ridiculously rich families. Most of our students were, and still are, both of the above. The building is actually home to the staff and students spanning grades six to university four. I would get into details, but an 'autobiography' is, undeniably, about me, the author. Everything started in July, I believe three days after Independence Day. Those three words marked my turning point:

"I'm sorry, what?" Those three words: I'm, sorry, what, I yawned.

"Mr. Stark, are you taking this seriously? We really would like you to consider our offer."

"I am. I am thoroughly considering your offer and I conclude that I must turn down your offer because it's ridiculous. I am a paramount figure of modern technology, a well-respected and world-renowned celebrity for anything made of metal and you, what's your face, want me to be a minimum-wage teacher at a kindergarten." I retorted, my words abundant with sarcasm.

"Mr. Stark, my name is Agent Coulson—Phil Coulson—and I am here on behalf of director and principal Fury of SHIELD. We will provide you with basic needs: living space, food, labs, and et cetera; you will not be on minimum wage, no teacher should be; and lastly, we are a prestigious institution."

"Lastly? Great, so we're done here," I joked quite disrespectfully but I was actually quite serious.

"Mr. Stark, we would be—" I cut him off.

"Look, Agent, I hate to be rude but I'm asking you to please get out of my house. I have everything I could ever want here and just keep in mind that Mr. Stark and kids don't go together."

Agent sighed. He briskly left without another word. He sort of hung his head as he passed through the automatic door of my living room, clutching the briefcase he lugged around with him almost every time. He wasn't the tallest man. In his neat, black suit and saddened form, he could have shrunk into a micron in the romantic natural lighting of such a cloudless evening. In truth though, I was actually willing to give in and try out this teaching idea but I had a certain trait of arrogance at the time. It may or may not still be lingering—it's a necessary part of my character, honestly.

I sat there for a while, frustrated by my indecisiveness. My 'living room' had a massive window—a wall of glass—overlooking the sea. The rays of the dimming, orange sunlight refracts around my spacey room like a security matrix. I actually set things up this way purposefully in my spare time, which is to say the ten minutes after dinner a few months back.

I sat there for a while, thinking about the last five times Agent tried to get me to sign those papers. I remember thinking to myself, "Why would he even choose me? I don't have any experience in teaching_ at all_". My brilliant imagination began fabricating scenarios of a possible life in SHIELD. I never really gave the man a chance to properly propose his offer. I guess I did that a lot back then. I felt better than everybody else because I_ was better than everybody_.

I sat for a while, trying to think of one person I could talk to.

I sat for a while, alone.


	2. Reflections of Iron II

The sun shone high the following morning and everything was wonderful. I remember that distinctively because every waking minute that summer seemed to have some element of subliminal mockery. I fell asleep (therefore awoke) in the living room last night thinking about life. I realized after about thirty long years of apparent blindness that I was a man who had everything…and nothing. I did have money, but I did not have family; I did have sex, but I did not have relationships. I had everything normal people ever wanted but I had nothing of what normal people have. It sounds sappy because it was sappy. I decided to wait for Agent to appear again and then I'd give him a chance and this time I meant it. He'd walk out that door with his chest held high and a smile on his face and I'd see him out the front door and he'd shake my hand and I'd shake his and I might just give that man a hug.

Everything sounded so good in my head (if not too good and slightly homoerotic) but let me just say, if life really worked that way then everyone would be best-selling autobiographers if not legendary romance novelists. There was just one problem: Agent never stepped back through my door. It didn't take me very long to realize that Agent Coulson was just an extremely nice man who tried to accomplish the task he was assigned: to put those papers in my hands. The problem is, I never loved being handed things—and still don't—unless it was alcoholic.

I was pretty certain I could find SHIELD's contact information online somewhere and I am also pretty certain that's the only time I was unsuccessful in my adulthood. The oddest fact was that there wasn't a website, there was no trace of this 'SHIELD' establishment ever existing, and there most certainly was no email or phone number. The word "scam" swam around my head and I was _going_ to give up—something I never do, ever—when the phone rang. _My_ phone rang. That was likely the fastest time I have ever answered a call because my record time here was marked by a few bruises from stumbling into chairs and desk corners in my valiant dive for the receiver.

"Stark." My words practically just fell out of my mouth.

"Tony! Is Jarvis taking a day off?" It was Pepper, Pepper Potts. A month before Phil showed up, Pepper left Stark Industries and she wouldn't tell me why. I was quite ambivalent as anyone would imagine.

"Actually, yes. Didn't you take him with you a month ago?" You see, Jarvis and Pepper used to work as my personal assistants—Jarvis was the tech guy and Pepper is the, well, everything else girl.

There was a brief silence on the other end.

"No, I didn't," she chuckled. "What are you talking about?" Her mild confusion held honesty. Pepper is an honest woman and I trust her. But when she resigned her position, Jarvis presented his letter immediately afterwards; I didn't bother questioning either of them. It was upsetting, but my pride kept me quiet.

"Pepper…"

"Tony, wouldn't you like to know why I called?"

"Because you miss the sound of my voice?" I guesstimated with great modesty.

"Tony," I could almost see her smile. "I'm calling from work! You're giving off some very indecent impressions."

"I'm on speakerphone? Or is the line bugged? You found work? What on Earth could offer you a better job than Stark Industries? Who the hell are you working for?" I interrogated, slightly agitated—just slightly.

She drew a short breath, "No, no, work found me, I work for the government, Agent Coulson, and—" I cut her off. She said Agent.

" Coulson? You're working for Agent Coulson? Are you the reason he's after me?" _Everything made sense!_

"Actually, _you're_ the reason he was after _me_," she stated factually, disassembling every piece of this puzzle I just put together.

"You said you work for the government. Coulson is a government official? I thought he worked for a school!" This was killing me.

"Oh god, I have to go. I'm so sorry, Tony. I just wanted to know if you're doing okay. I—" The line went dead. Fantastic, my irritability just cost me my last chance to start a new life, a real life. Agent probably had Jarvis too. I officially felt compelled to work for SHIELD but, again, my pride was the fetter attaching me to this life of fame and iron. On top of that, I don't work for anyone. I'm Tony Stark.

My brilliance thus deduced that this 'SHIELD' scam is government-operated and they are holding Pepper and Jarvis hostage as ransom for my signature on some shady weaponry contract—probably a discount or something—and either Agent Coulson is also held captive or he's one damn good actor. I had to save them. I'm the hero.

Being astoundingly tech-savvy, I traced the call which was purposefully made 'untraceable', hopped in one of my aircrafts, and I auto-piloted the bird to my geographical coordinates. I'm kidding. First of all, I don't have Jarvis to help; secondly, I don't have the initiative; thirdly, I'm preoccupied: the doorbell rang. Of course, I slugged over and answered the obnoxious prompt.

Impatiently, I inquired, "Who are you and what are you doing on my property?" When I stopped rolling my eyes, I immediately regretted opening my mouth in such an unmannerly fashion to such a well-mannered woman. What are the chances? She was average in height with a structured but lithe physique, pinned-up red hair, and almost-garish green eyes.

"You must be Mr. Stark." She replied flatly, completely un-amused, and with a mild Russian accent only detectable on her funky R's. "My name is Natalie Romanoff. I saw you had an opening for secretary and assistant."

How ironic was it that one hot, ginger secretary resigns and another one shows up? The skirt she wore was very flattering. I don't remember hammering out advertisements to Russia but by all means this girl has the job. "Yep," I replied, "You have the job!"

"I've prepared a resume and—" Ha! As if I was going to let her finish. I showed her around, gave her some basic tasks, and tried to make small talk. This girl was difficult; she rarely laughed. It was just, "Of course, Mr. Stark" or "No, I don't think that's a good idea," or "You are very funny Mr. Stark" completely in monotone. But she got things done with deadly efficiency which was actually quite disturbing. I was thoroughly surprised she didn't say anything even remotely related to SHIELD. I mean it is common knowledge that all Russians are spies. I joke. I joke very rudely.

I realized this wasn't going to take my mind off of SHIELD. I knew there had to be a way I could track them down or contact them or something. Before I plunge into permanent frustration, I need to find something to do. I reflected. About four months ago, I went to Afghanistan for a weapons demonstration. I just invented a new missile/launching system and apparently some terrorists wanted in on it too. They infiltrated the US Forces' 'accommodation team' (who were literally my butlers) and dosed me with some toxin that permanently damaged my heart. It slowed down my heartbeat to an almost crucial rate, offering a cure in return for information. I now wear a pacemaker and I figured I might as well improve it because why the hell not? I aspired to make one that could control my heart rate rather than regulate it and would resist metal detectors. I compulsively set to work with Natalie as my assistant. I just hoped this wouldn't give advantage to foreign spy industries.


	3. Reflections of Iron III

"Mr. Stark, I wouldn't try that if I were you." Natalie warned, arms crossed, as I tried to surgically remove my current pacemaker. I hate that word, pacemaker. I need a new word for it because I hate sounding like I'm toothless and saggy but everyone already knew. It was a trending headline and Twitter feed: hash tag world pace, condolences.

"That's precious, Ms. Romanoff. Pass me the scalpel?" I lay shirtless, reclining on my makeshift surgical table.

"This is suicide." She hesitated but obliged anyway, brow slightly furrowed.

"I've literally got nothing left to lose." I almost sort of meant it at the time. I guess I miss my old assistants or something. But really, I was always pretty reckless.

I proceeded to, after disinfecting the general area where my heart should be, make an incision and extract the pacemaker. It went so well I almost died in brutal agony—which is to say it didn't go well at all. The new pacemaker I made needed more electrodes to run it but before I even tested it out, I almost bled to death from the first cut in.

"Are you trying to kill yourself, Mr. Stark?" Natalie didn't look as concerned as she sounded.

Maybe I was. After filtering through all possibilities for me to extract the little ticker without killing myself, I asked Natalie if she could. It turned out she did a much better job than I expected. However, the replacement almost electrocuted me to death.

III

Literally a week after she showed up, Natalie requested a leave to visit her dying mother. Her concern seemed genuine so I let her go which stalled my progress. I modified the machine before she left and although it's still detectable via metal sensors, it was close enough.

Strangely though, the day Natalie left, I discovered a bug in the Stark Industries system. The damn thing couldn't be traced back, but I found a way around that of course. I pinpointed the location the bug was feeding information to and flew one of my Quinjets for a visit. The destination ended up being a

SHIELD is very secretive and nauseatingly confusing. I approached my pinpoint, which ended up being the center of a massive ground-base spanning a mile, maybe. I would have continued remarking the architecture in awe if it didn't openly fire in my direction. Tony Stark is a man of countless talents, but aerobatics is sadly not one of them. I crashed and burned, kind of. I didn't even care; at least now I tried to save someone. This was not my first brink-of-death experience. At least now I've tried to do the world good (or do myself good, either is acceptable). It was a beautiful day to die, but thankfully I did not. A black man in a black suit with one eye and two bazookas—Stark Industries'—strutted towards me emitting obvious confidence.

"Identify yourself!" He bellowed.

I pretended I was comatose, hoping he'd cut me some slack. I really was injured, I kid you not.

He grabbed a megaphone from one of the many personnel who have gathered and repeated his request impatiently.

I staggered out of my helplessly smoking jet and rasped out my name, first and last. I was then escorted inside and kind of interrogated.

"May I politely ask what you're business is here, crashing into my linguistics department, wasting my ammunition, and disturbing the quiet on this fine day, Mr. Stark?" This man had a caliber of sarcasm almost rivaling mine.

"Can I say no?" I sheepishly replied, unable to level my gaze.

He gave me the look.

"Who are you, exactly?" I interrogated, not really wanting his answer as much as he wanted mine.

He frowned and breathed out, "I am Director Fury, of the SHIELD academia project."

"Oh, well, in that case you'll be glad to know I've thoroughly considered your teaching offer and I am willing to—."

"And you'll be glad to know we don't need you. Consider your offer expired." That was actually quite offensive. I was offended. I reached for the familiar folder Coulson kept shoving at me but Fury stopped me. He then proceeded to hand me a different folder. "That nice young lady, Natalie Romanoff, is our agent her job was to profile you thoroughly. We suspected that maybe you were right: you would be a shitty teacher." I hate being handed things.

I commenced my read aloud, "Mr. Stark displays compulsive behavior," it began, "In my own defense, that was last week and I had a good reason." I continued, "…Prone to self-destructive tendencies…" my argument follows, "Oh but, aren't we all?" I forced a chuckle. Fury was not impressed. His stare pressurized me to skim the pages faster. He had three and a half pages on why I was a terrible person. One fragment caught my eye, "…Textbook narcissism?" The glance we exchanged kind of hurt my feelings. After a grimace of reluctance, I agreed.

As I continued reading, my hopes picked up. "Employment assessment for SHIELD Academia Project, Stark: Yes." I snapped the folder closed. "I would be very willing to—" damn Fury cut me off again.

"Read on."

I scanned, "Tony Stark not—not recommended? How can you approve me but not approve me?"

"We've decided you are to be but a consultant."

We sat there in awkward silence, face to face, for two and a half seconds. 'Mr. Fury' then broke the ice by offering to escort me 'home'. I did not go quietly, I never did, never do, and never will. "You asked me for my business here? You kidnapped my secretary!" I argued.

"It's not my fault if she likes us better than you," he shrugged as he gave me the look.

"You butler-napped my butler!" I was referring to Jarvis.

"It's not my fault if he likes us better than you," he pronounced more slowly.

"Then why was Pepper's call cut short? You call that good staff keeping? What do you call that? What the _hell_ do you call that?" I was growing increasingly frustrated as I forcibly neared the exit. I was harshly manhandled and shoved out of the building into a cozy helicopter.

"Budget cuts!" was his reply.

It would be a while before I set foot on SHIELD property again, the same while before I talked to anyone again, and the same while before I lost my cool again.

"Budget cuts," I repeated under my breath. I will be back again. They will be back again, for me.


	4. Bird's Eye View I

**A/N:** Bird's Eye View _is (will be) a series of narrated audio logs by Clint Barton, a fictional Marvel(c) character and I therefore disclaim. _

* * *

The sky is gray and a light October rain pattered a rhythm on the roof of the apartment like a beat to an unfinished song on this gloomy Sunday afternoon. This is the only occupied room on the eighth, and highest, floor of this downtown apartment, the reason being its tenant is stubborn enough to not leave such a dangerous neighbourhood and he loves the high places. He is also stubborn enough to let go what happened almost two years ago during his employment in a government academia project.

The stubborn tenant sits on his collapsing old mattress, head down, thumb on the record button of his audio log recorder, a habit he adopted from his years of teaching at the government-run institute. He slowly holds it up to his mouth and hesitantly presses the button. After a long pause, he exhales an uncertain breath and clicks the stop button. Making a mental preparation, he records again.

"Day six-hundred-and-fourteen," he sighs. "Clint Francis Barton reports," he pauses then continues with an airy chuckle, "that there is nothing to report." As he slides his thumb onto the stop button once again but then relaxes. "She hasn't yet stopped by. I don't think she will. She does that." Clint then proceeds to turn off the device. The luminous display blinks black. The logo of the institute, SHIELD, shows for a brief moment and it powers off. Now he can see his depressing reflection on the lifeless screen. His short, brown-blond hair is unkempt and greasy. He stopped shaving two weeks ago and he forgot to wash his face this morning. It's also been a while since he last worked out and he hasn't moved since noon.

Clint looks out the open, dirty screen window at the rooftops and rain: seems like he forgot to close it last night. It has almost been two years since the institute closed down. For the first six months he was doing all right in life away from SHIELD but certain promises were never realized and normal life seemed almost unrealistically dull in comparison. He stopped going to his job at the corner mart last November and his funds from the SHIELD termination was rapidly depleting due to unemployment, rising rent, and higher taxes.

He reaches over to a photo frame, the only clean object in the residence, and takes a good long look as he does every day since this past February. The photograph is blurry and of very poor quality but captures the moment of a smiling, young man with blonde hair, sunglasses, and dressy clothes holding a rose facing with a gasping (as if startled), beautiful young woman who has wavy red hair sharp fashion. Clint smirks vaguely and tries to recall how it began, his first day, the staff, the students, everything. In his class room on the highest level (although he also taught physical education to the kids) there is always a dank smell of pencil shavings and somebody's gum. He never bothered with the classroom regulations and was generally a nice guy. All the staff and students liked and respected him. What happened?

A few days ago he had heard that Tony Stark the snarky physics professor published an autobiography recounting the secret institute. Maybe he can do something like that, record all his memories. With another heaved sigh, Clint stood up. There is so much he can say, so many stories to tell about the stories he told and the stories he heard. But that can wait. Time means nothing to a man who lives in the past. First, he's going to take a shower and maybe do some lunges—in that order. First, he needs to get a grip.


	5. Bird's Eye View II

Now, at 5:15PM, with the weather still cold and grey although the rain ceased to fall, Clint Barton is sitting on a chair with the tape recorder in one hand, a fistful of air in the other. He sits, hunching over with his elbows kissing his knees and head dangling in thought. There are a few open cuts on his face from using a dull razor while running low on shaving cream and his hair is still wet. From any angle, Clint appears to be a total wreck but inside his mind, he is reliving the most joyous moments of his life.

"I used to be a field agent for the CIA. Ironically, my marksmanship skills that all so fondly spoke of were honed by my enrollment in the best educational system in America: the circus. To elaborate on that, I grew up in a relatively nuclear household contrary to common belief. My mother never wanted this life for me. Actually scratch that my mother's narrow imagination couldn't possibly have even imagined this life for me. When I was young and reckless, not saying I'm not still, I ran away from home. Ha, listen to that: such a CW cliché, right? Well…" Abruptly, he stops talking. He lifts his head up and turns to face the window as he does very often.

"There were windows everywhere…" He mutters to himself letting his gaze fall upon the recorder. "Well," he continues, "I sometimes feel like, if it's even possible, they weren't my real parents. But then again, stranger things have happened. Honestly, where I worked there was this guy, let me tell you, who was, get this, from the 1940's. Yeah, crazy, and guess what? He taught American history. Take my word for it though, he was a great guy, but he had it coming you know. Ah…" The smile on his face slowly fades as he recollects the events.

"Can I just say, I shoot things…" he pauses, smile wavering, "I shot things for the government for a living. I remember thinking about how much I loved it but then things at works got dramatic and I couldn't take it no more. I resigned and went to school. I even studied abroad to get away from home. I went into English and arithmetic because I wanted to teach kids. Then one day the government comes knocking again but says, 'Clint Francis Barton, we want you to teach kids'. Well at least they put me in the linguistics department for some period because those guys down in sciences—whew! They were crazy. Actually now I take that back. The Scandinavian who taught below me is bat shit. He was all English, history, mythology and, what, foreign languages? Ha…" Clint grimaces as he repeats "foreign languages" under his breath. With his free hand, he wipes his face to dry it as well as snap himself out of the trance. His hand then rests on his chin, preparing the next bout of words.

"Foreign languages…" he mutters again, "When they came to me I was in a cubicle talking to a coworker about her new cat. Yeah, the teaching thing didn't really happen like I planned. Anyway, they were strange people. There were three guys: a sturdy black man with an eye patch in a great coat led the charge and two white guys with combovers and suits followed him sort of, almost, not really, like Morpheus leading Mister and Mister Smith. The one in the coat came up to me and said, you know what he said? He said he liked my tie. It was a purple tie I remember that. Then he proceeded to make me an offer. He asked me if I had family, experience in the educational system, how I liked my job at the CIA, how I like my current job in State Farm Insurance then told me to transfer to some military base in New Mexico for training. Remember when I said I studied abroad? I did, I went to Budapest. There I picked Economics because it seemed practical in case teaching didn't work out. I actually was not that good at it though. But, luckily, I made a friend who was really smart: a Russian exchange student. She helped…" Clint pauses to take a short breath, "A lot. But it turns out she was undercover to retrieve a stolen weapon from some idiot kid in the engineering whatever. Then she—"

Rudely interrupting him, the phone rings somewhere in the apartment from behind a stack of magazines, maybe under a cushion, probably on the floor somewhere made unreachable by empty liquor bottles. From honed reflexes, Clint snaps the recorder off and turns his full attention to the missing receiver. After eight rings, the answering machine clicks on. Alert, he expectantly waits for the message. When an automated voice hounds him for credit card payments, the spark of excitement quickly extinguishes. Slowly sliding a thumb back onto the record button, Clint takes a deep breath. Where he left off in his recount, all he can think of at the moment is the girl he met in Budapest. He records anyways.

"When we first met, I was that guy sitting in the back of the lecture hall staring at the nice girls sitting in front. She, though, she was sitting right at the back with me a few empty seats down. I kept sneaking glances over at her until she noticed. She sort of smirked a little so I moved over closer. She had the absolute reddest hair and the greenest eyes and really nice skin." The he stares off into space, in a trance, remembering her image vividly.

"I started the conversation. I told her my name's Francis. Not entirely true, but I wanted to be cautious. She told me she was Natalie. Oddly, she was more honest than I was. She was beautiful though. We met up in the cafeterias and libraries to study a few times after that, then we started going to a local café, and eventually we just started going to my place. Sometimes not even to study at all." His glance sweeps over to the framed photo of the blonde man and the red-haired girl on his desk. He jerks his arm to reach for the photograph but stops himself. Again, he lets his limb slump against his knees.

"She told me though. I don't know why. I know it wasn't in the interest of a relationship because both of us knew then that we'd never meet again. Well we thought we'd never meet again. I was so…" before digressing, Clint reorganizes his thoughts. "Oh, right, she told me who she really was, who she worked for, why she was here, and that she knew who I was. Also she needed me to help her. After three long months of legitimate studying it turns out she was here to kill. She told me I could return to Russia with her and she can get me a decent position in some organization. She filled me with these ideas of being a bad-ass spy agent or whatever and I agreed to throw away my plans for a new, non-violent career to be with her. I was certainly not thinking." Catching his breath, he continues,

"We failed though. We tried really hard but she got shot in the shoulder. It was debilitating but not terminal and I couldn't bring her to a hospital at the moment so I brought her to my apartment and I tried to dress her wound but even working in the CIA I have never done anything like this before. I must have fallen asleep, too. Stupid, stupid, stupid…I was so tired but when I got up again she was gone. There wasn't a note or anything she was just gone. I felt pretty used but I decided to continue economics and forget teaching because I couldn't bring myself to leave Hungary. But when I had a degree and no job, I went back to the States. Worked cubicles nine to five at a insurance company but I never dated, never married, and I waited for two whole years because I remembered her and I couldn't move on because I still loved," at that word he pauses again. He repeats it inaudibly: _loved, loved, loved her_. He loved her.

"I loved her."

An odd, almost chilling sensation descends upon him whether it's the water from the shower amplifying his lack of a heater or if it's the realization he threw years of his life away multiple times for the same woman. _If it's the latter,_ _then I am officially too pathetic to live_,he thinks.

"I love her."

The droplets on his skin robbing him of heat begin to distill with new-found warmth.

The radiator came on.

* * *

**A/N:** _I was never sure if I should stay more true to reality, true to the comics/movie, or keep it how it currently is so if anyone has opinions to offer..._


	6. Declaration of Independence I

**A/N:** The Declaration of Independence _will be a third-person narrative told through an omniscient third-person perspective about Steve Rogers, a fictional character by Marvel (c) and I therefore disclaim._

* * *

It was a small room with walls painted an industrial shade bland enough to not have a virtual description. On the cracked ceiling, a fan spun in vain attempt to moderate the room temperature. Directly underneath the feeble fan was an arthritic bed. Beside the bed was a closed window that overlooked a rundown apartment plaza in downtown New York. On top of the bed lay an unconscious blonde man of a lazying strong build. An unkempt beard grew on his face, his hair was permanently fashioned into a conservative comb-over (although growing long) and startlingly long eyelashes adorned his shut eyelids.

The room was silent, save for the synthesized noises from the life-support equipment attached to his limp appendages and the mechanical mumbling of the ceiling fan, a crude cooling method for a modern hospital. Even though it was a stuffy day in July, the patient's lower body was covered with a bleached blanket resulting in a thin wafer of sweat on his skin.

Inside his mind, the patient was having a very long dream—or rather an epic anthology of his memories. He recalled himself as a little boy sitting in his father's lap listening to his father's second-hand stories of the Second World War. He was told that his grandfather died in action. He was told that his grandmother was a nurse who had seen gruesome war injuries. He was told that he was lucky to live in the freedom of America. Due to such early exposure to patriotism and politics, he was drawn to American history all through school and considered teaching it as a career but he never got outstanding grades. Another goal was to get fit (he was the antonym of the word) and play the sport of America: baseball. From his parents' support and sheer determination, he made it onto the baseball team and eventually the National League and was named Captain of his team. His story and his excellence earned him respect from almost every American citizen. His life was good until he blacked out at the big game.

He even had a lady, Margaret Carter. Peggy, he called her. She was watching that game and they made plans for that evening afterwards. But as far as he knew, it might have all been a dream. The last thing he remembered was a blur fractions away from his face, a blunt pain, and then finally a very long, seemingly endless dream.

That's right. He was dreaming. Realizing his lengthy state of sleep, the patient hesitantly opened his eyes. It felt like the first time in years. The light was alarmingly bright and he had to consciously force his eyes open. Following the visual shock of an unfamiliar room and overwhelming light, the next offense to his senses was the inappropriately warm blanket. Trying to lift a hand to cast it aside, he realized his limbs were unresponsive. For the first time in a long time, he felt panic. But soon recognizing that he was in a hospital, he opened his mouth to call for help but not even a hoarse yelp escaped his parched throat.

Flailing around came instinctively but his arms were obscenely heavy. Just in time, as if he was being observed, a nurse stepped into the room. She took no more than three steps before she dropped the tray she was holding in a mixture of delight and horror when she saw him.

"You," she was having just as much trouble speaking as he was, "you're awake!"

"Water" he rasped out in an undead voice, "please!"

Speechless, the nurse obediently nodded and backed out of the room. The expression she wore metamorphosed into sheer terror. _How long had I been out? She looked like she saw a ghost!_

Expecting water, the patient was much dismayed to find an eyepatched man in a black trench coat reenter the room. He sat down in the chair beside his cot. He didn't seem malevolent but he was most certainly not benevolent either. Well at least he did have a cup of water which the patient confidently downed.

"Steve Rogers, national hero. Good morning, Captain," he greeted, "or should I say afternoon? I'm Director Nick Fury and I've been keeping a close eye on you."

Shakily removing his oxygen mask, he spoke. "Where," the Captain paused and reorganized his priorities, "what happened?"

"You've been asleep, Cap. For almost five years." His tone and his expression were absolutely serious but his words were complete lunacy.

"I was hit in the head with a ball." Saying the truth aloud sounded so silly. "It was a ball. It couldn't have…"

"Five years, Cap, whether you like it or not. Your team won, though. They won the finals. But they moved on and replaced you. Still, you're an American baseball hero but you're dead to most people. I'm here to give you a choice. You can try to go back to the sports world and push your luck or you can come with me and—"

"Can you just," Steve cut in, "please give me some time? Has it really been five years?" His face screwed up in incomprehension.

"Are you going to be okay?" His voice sounded more mocking than concerned.

"Yeah, I just," Peggy was the first thing that came to mind. She hated it when he was late for anything, "I just had a date." If his team moved on, Peggy probably did too. After all, most people thought he was dead so why wouldn't she? In all honesty, his head was spinning and he felt like he might pass out. Although he deeply considering the offer of Director, of what he never said, Fury, he realized that after five years of sleep the most important thing was to get back into shape.


End file.
